


Home Is Where The Hearth Is

by theterribletyrian



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: F/M, Loss, Love, Norn (Guild Wars) - Freeform, Sylvari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theterribletyrian/pseuds/theterribletyrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Svig has spent the past few months travelling far and wide in the regions west of Timberline Falls, and is currently on his return journey.  Out in the icy spring wilderness of the southern Shiverpeaks, not far now from home, he spends a lonely night by his campfire with completely inadequate food supplies, and a heart full of regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Where The Hearth Is

**Author's Note:**

> * CHARACTERS: Ildirim isn't actually here in this scene, except as a memory in Svig's head.  
> 
> * THANKS: To Nox from my awesome RP guild [Mist] (The Mistwatch Initiative), for providing the writing challenge prompt that led to this piece!  
> 

He had jerky for dinner.

He had jerky for _every_ meal, not just dinner. Jerky, melted snow in a dented pot, and the nagging feeling that there was more to life than dried meat and mud. Svig sighed, chewing mindlessly as he stared into the flames.

It felt like years since he'd seen another sentient being. All the wildlife seemed to have fled this particular corner of the Shiverpeaks. Maybe they'd sensed his growing dissatisfaction with meals that came from his pack, rather than their bodies, and made themselves scarce. He was lonely, and bored, and ... Spirits, what he really wanted was _fruit_.

At that, he stopped chewing and simply stared. Remembering her. A golden afternoon, the sun a gilded halo on her branches, silver drops like tears on her eyelids as she emerged from the pond, clutching a massive trout. The catlike tilt of her eyes, the smile that looked too big for her face. The petal-soft touch of her hand on the night he'd lost everything. Everything but her.

Hours later, she'd gone, too.

Somewhere, deep in the alpine wilderness, a wolf howled. Svig looked up, eyes scanning rank after rank of pine-shaped shadows on the ridge, but the animal was too far distant to hunt.

It hadn't been a good day. He might have been able to deal with the jerky situation if it had been, but no. Ten straight hours of poring uselessly over trails gone stale, tracks turned to mush in the spring thaw. The air was still too cold to ditch his heavy woollen gear, and he'd developed a terrible itch on his right knee. His pack had popped a hole at some point, and the needle and thread he could have used to fix it had fallen _out_ of the hole. Then he'd faceplanted in the thrice-damned stream.

Once upon a time, he'd been hailed as the best tracker the Norn had ever produced. He'd been the one people came to when they wanted a no-nonsense, one hundred percent guaranteed escort through the dangerous dredge territory, past Hoelbrak, and all the way on up to Frostgorge Sound. Svig the Shadow, they'd called him; the one scout who could sneak them past every single hostile creature the mountains could throw at them. Now? Now, he was a disaster, a man thoroughly on the wrong side of his prime, the laughingstock of the Timberline communities. All his vaunted skills had fled in the space of one night, and so had she.

For the love of Raven. He _had_ to stop thinking about her.

He thought about fruit again, about luscious, vibrant flesh he could sink his teeth into, juice dribbling down his chin. They made a wretchedly sticky mess of his beard, but he would have contemplated punching someone for a peach. A handful of strawberries probably warranted a solid whack upside the head. And he'd have _killed_ for a coconut. Coconuts were amazing things, and almost impossible to get at a reasonable price back home. There was no way you could grow them in the mountains, but they were worth travelling for.

Then again, Svig found most things worth travelling for. He loved the mountains -- the glacial bite of dawn, the birdsong and wildlife (when it was around, which currently, it wasn't). The crisp, dry scent of alpine grass. He loved his people -- their laughter, their energy, their wonderful history -- and he especially loved the ones who wanted to drink and dance and have a good time _without_ beating each other to a pulp.

But there was only so much the Shiverpeaks could offer. Only so much, he was beginning to suspect, that any one region of the world could offer, and so he travelled. Useless as a tracker, or a scout, or anything else that required manual dexterity, a keen eye, and a properly-functioning pair of ears, he found odd jobs on the road as a crude labourer. He lifted bales of hay, plowed fields, carried cargo, chopp- wait, nobody trusted him to chop wood any more.

Still, he was _strong,_ and that had to count for something. Day after day, mile after mile, he walked the land and sailed the high seas. He'd been more places than anyone else he knew, but there always seemed one more mountain to climb, one more horizon to chart. Life -- a life free of jeering and sideways looks, a life that he could be _proud_ of -- seemed always to be just out of his reach.

* * *

On this latest run, he'd worked his way across half of Kryta and the edge of the jungle, then looped south through the Grove. That had been a brief visit, cut short by memories he couldn't bear. He'd taken a ship back east, where touching down on the Splintered Coast had nearly killed him. A dripping, stinking mess that called itself a dragon swung through to harass the hylek communities, which were already under siege by swarms of Risen. Despite his usual distaste for violence, he'd been moved by their courage in the face of such terrible odds. He'd stayed and fought alongside the mish-mash of races that rallied to fend it off, and landed countless free drinks in the aftermath. It seemed he could still fight, and fight admirably ... if the things he fought were a hundred times bigger than he was. It was hard to miss that kind of target.

One of the logs in his fire popped, rolling off the pile. He nudged it back with a mud-spattered boot and took another swig of icy water, making a face. One would think that helping to kill a dragon would _count_ for something. Especially when it stank to high heaven, like that one had. But he'd run into a group of traders near the volcano east of Sparkfly, twelve Norn from Kyesjard, and they'd laughed off his tale. Told him they knew him by reputation. Slapped him on the back, said they didn't blame him for trying to fabricate his legend, but ... no. No, he hadn't killed a dragon. No, he hadn't held the defenders together, directing them in a concerted attack, and he _definitely_ hadn't been single-handedly responsible for stabbing the monster in the eye, right when it seemed like all might be lost.

 _Why?,_ he'd asked, angry. _Why don't you believe me? I did it. You can ask anyone who was there -- they all know my name, my face. Raven be my witness, this is no lie._

All he'd received, by way of answer, were looks of pity. Clearly, whatever reputation they attributed to him didn't extend back far enough to encompass the man he'd been, back before everything went to Orr. They'd bought him another round. When it seemed he'd drink them all under the table, they'd dubbed him the King of the Keg. Then they'd wandered off into the night, genial laughter trailing in their wake.

He'd been left furious, impotent, scorned. They hadn't _believed_ him. He picked up another piece of jerky, stared at it, then threw it into the fire. Somewhere in the back of his head, her quiet voice sounded.

_**Svig, why do you even care about what they thought? You're a Norn who hates fighting. You made that choice long ago. Why would you seek their approval, when all the values by which they'd measure you aren't even the ones you believe in? You did what you could, you helped people who needed it ... for that, you went against your own code. You did it for the right reasons, but don't go seeking praise for it now. That wasn't why you stayed. That wasn't why you fought.** _

Melancholy now, and tired enough to give up the fight, he ran with it. _No, it wasn't. But I deserved some respect. I deserved not to be treated as a liar, or a lunatic. I didn't make it up!_

Silence. He tried again. _All I want is to be accepted, to not be seen as a failure. For things to go back to the way they were._

_**You know that can't happen.** _

His frustration boiled over. _I want a HOME!_

In the pause that followed, the memory of her seeped into him like sunlight, warm despite his surroundings. He buried his face in numb hands, fighting back the pain. Behind his closed eyelids, she appeared as he'd last seen her: limned in flames, leaves dancing in the heat. White light, smooth bark, and a passion so hot it turned him to ash.

_**You have one, Svig. You told me once that fire was life. That as long as there was a fire, any place in the whole, wide world could be home.** _

His head lifted, eyes glinting with tears. The stars arching overhead blurred. "I was talking about _you_ ," he whispered. The words vanished along with her image, whipped away by the rising wind.

Spirits be damned. He needed fruit, or he was going to go insane.


End file.
